


Volneniye

by OrchidScript



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, bisexual Mrs. Borgova, demisexual Vasily, ot3 content - Freeform, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: "If Marya said nothing else, she would have said they fit well. Sitting well at the waist, properly fit without being indecent or too Californian, in deep indigo blue. They cut off fashionably just above the ankle. A white zig-zag was top stitched over the back pockets. A proper fitting garment, darkly colored enough to be demure. Fashionable, young, deeply American. Fascinating enough to distract her from her cup of tea, the delicate European pastries accompanying it."Dedicated to a certain group chat.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov/Mrs. Borgova, Vasily Borgov/Mrs. Borgova/Beth Harmon
Comments: 50
Kudos: 89





	1. Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkcupboardwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcupboardwitch/gifts).



> volneniye (n): excitement, agitation, unrest
> 
> Apparently you *can* find rare pairs that are rarer than the rare pairs they're based in. Who knew?  
> Enjoy!

The girl had likely thought nothing of her choice. The young American was willful, her whims evident in most of what she did.

They didn’t have a tea hour in America, or even breaks as far as Marya could tell. They operated with a speed and casualness that stood out starkly on European streets, in a Parisian cafe. Elizabeth Harmon stood out by her red hair alone. Beyond the chessboard and without knowing it, she hummed along that same speed as her countrymen.

Impulsive, quick, emotional, second thoughts coming in fourth.

It certainly explained the denim.

If Marya said nothing else, she would have said they fit well. Sitting well at the waist, properly fit without being indecent or too Californian, in deep indigo blue. They cut off fashionably just above the ankle. A white zig-zag was top stitched over the back pockets. A proper fitting garment, darkly colored enough to be demure. Fashionable, young, deeply American.

Fascinating enough to distract her from her cup of tea, the delicate European pastries accompanying it.

The young American didn’t notice Marya’s appraising stare as she ordered in tight, neat French. She didn’t notice their table, tucked against the wall of the cafe. She didn’t notice her husband, the man she had played that morning, still dressed in the same suit. Whether that was the truth or a willful attempt to hide, Marya didn’t speculate. But she appreciated the extra time given to simply look.

That time came to a close when Vasily leans forward in his chair. Watching the girl and her clean blue denim as she departed, a brown paper bag in hand. Imperceptible, deliberate, perceived only by her and maybe the one sullen agent who had been their watcher the longest. In one fluid motion, Marya lifts a hand from her lap and lays it gently over his wrist. She swipes the pad of her thumb over his skin, settling over the join of his wrist and thumb.

She feels him still and shift backwards. She keeps her hand there and takes another sip of her tea. He does the same, then rests his other hand over her’s, drawing her eyes up to his.

Dark, warmed through, the same way he often looked at her.

She knew he saw the same things in her’s.

“Have you decided where you’d like to have dinner this evening?” He asked quietly.

Marya nodded, offering a small smile. After all these years, they still worked in tandem. The depths of which outsiders would never see or know or speculate at. An understanding born from years, love, and trusted confidence. Marya could feel it pulsing through their palms, skin, bones, as sure as snowfall in winter.

“Where would that be?”

“Perhaps we stayed at the hotel,” she replied. “A quiet night, Vasya. Just us.”

He smiled, a flicker in his eyes telling her he caught the slight emphasis. Just _us_. “I’m sure I can hold off the team, just for tonight.”


	2. Paris

She had sat at the vanity, fixing her hair, for long enough now. The dress was French, stylish, age-appropriate, so her hair should be as well. Vasily had stood behind her before going to the hotel bar, hoping to catch Elizabeth and extend their invitation.

“Up or down?” She had asked. It was a perfectly simple question after years of marriage, but came with a less simple answer. Flaunt the rules in order to look softer, more appealing? Or stay inside the lines but risk looking sharper, unapproachable? Her husband, saddled with the same rules and risks, understood totally.

Vasily had swept her dark hair up from her shoulders, turning it twice in his hands, before holding it just at the nape of her neck. “Something like this.”

Marya had smiled at him in the mirror, covering his hand with hers. Serious and handsome, soft only for her and a select few friends. The young American did not yet know the special status she had garnered. “You’re right, as always.”

He bent and kissed the curve of her jaw. “You say that as if I didn’t know you.”

“But you do, Vasya,” Marya murmured to the glass reflection. “Better than I ever hoped you would.”

He returned the smile, kissed her again, and stood. “Don’t be long, dearest.”

The seriousness he wore so well had returned before he turned the door handle, secure as he stepped out into the hall.

Their arrangement was for her to wait twenty minutes before joining him. Long enough for her to fix her hair in a low chignon and make sure their son was settled. Long enough for her to freshen her lipstick and admire her deep blue dress in the mirror. Not long enough, however, for the itch under her skin to abate or the sparkling excitement to settle in her nerves. She found herself chewing the inside of her cheek, picking at her fingernails, nearly pacing in anticipation.

Twenty minutes be damned.

Marya departed their room for the bar after only fifteen. She liked to have an entrance, liked to keep Vasya on his toes.

She liked the feeling of walking more — the prickling, floating feeling carrying her all the way to the elevator doors. Through the lobby, to the restaurant and it’s dark wood bar.

Marya loved an entrance. She loved an entrance in Europe most of all — the twisting tendrils of staring eyes, a tinge of lust, the shock of a Soviet woman in tune with the zeitgeist. She could keep pace with the French, far outpaced the English. One day, she would like to see how she measured up to the Italians.

Not today though.

Her mind moved elsewhere.

It had moved to the bar, to her husband in his pristine dark suit, where she would slip against his side and order something in a pretty glass. Stand next to him and smile warmly at the young American. She found the red hair before she found Vasily.

As the pair came into view — heads bent close, talking about chess she imagined — Marya realized that she had never spoken to the woman. Vasily had, a few times now and mostly during competition. According to Vasily, she spoke Russian. Marya wondered how well. The trained interpreter in her looked forward to hearing it for herself.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” Marya began, treating her native tongue as lightly as she could manage. She slipped her hand into the crook of Vasily’s elbow, smiling winningly up at him, then letting her eyes wander to the Harmon girl. No longer in denim but green velvet, a deep soft emerald that complimented her hair, her doe eyes. She turned that bright smile to her, watching the girl’s smitten expression sober slightly. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Elizabeth, yes?”

“Oh.” The girl blinked at her then held out a hand. “Yes, Elizabeth.”

She said the name as if it tasted sour in her mouth. She sat perched on a bar stool, a cup of coffee at her elbow. Marya looked at the outstretched hand and loosened her’s from Vasily’s arm. She stepped forward, closing the hand in both of her’s, ignoring the prickling of their agents’ stare in the center of her back.

“Please,” Marya said, honeyed and warm. She leaned forward, placing a kiss on one of Elizabeth’s cheeks, then the other, then the first again. Like the French. She was pushing the line and smiled wider for it. “I feel like I’ve known you for years. He’s always studying your matches.”

A shell pink flush rose in Elizabeth’s pale skin — delicate and lovely. She blinked a few times, dark eyes flickering from Vasily to her and back again. Perhaps confused by the warmth.

“I’m Marya. It’s good to meet you.”

“Oh, yes. Nice to meet you too.”

Vasily’s hand settled on her shoulder, steadying her. He was always steady. She leaned into the touch, turning her face to look back at him. “Elizabeth has just agreed to join us for dinner.”

“Oh yes?” Excitement sparked in her blood, fresh and bright. She only let it reach her eyes, knowing Vasily would see it — the only one she wanted to see.

He nodded, then waved over a bartender. “Yes. If you’re alright with more game talk for the evening.”

“We have talked of nothing but chess for ten years, Vasya,” Marya answered, pausing to order. “I never mind. It will be refreshing to have someone join us who isn’t a team mate.”

“Do you often have dinner without your team?” Elizabeth asked. Her Russian was smooth and even, if stiffened slightly by textbook learning.

Marya shook her head, reaching for her drink. She took a slow sip, letting her eyes settle and warm, just as they had in the cafe that afternoon. “Not often enough, Elizabeth. New conversation is so very hard to come by.”

“I can imagine,” Elizabeth answered, more a whisper than anything.

Vasily squeezed Marya’s shoulder. “A table is in order?”

“I believe it is,” Marya nodded. She took her husband’s hand, the American falling into step behind them, she felt as if she were floating again. Delighted and sparkling, yes, but settled now. The excitement boiled down to a manageable thrum in her blood and bones.

The touch grounded her, would ground her until she was sure. Until they could make another, more discreet offer. Vasya would not let go until he was sure, until they were both sure. Marya squeezed his hand and let him lead.


	3. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no posting schedule for this fic. Whenever I finish and am satisfied with the next bit is when the next bit goes up.
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely reception. I had no earthly idea this fic would go over as well as it has, but I am very grateful. Can't tell you how grateful, so thank you <3
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

“What do you think, dearest?” He whispers in her ear as they lie in the plush hotel bed.

Marya reaches back a hand, running the pads of her fingers down his cheek, already rough with beard growth. “I like her... I see why you do too. It’s a shame that you waited so long to tell me.”

“Oh is it?”

“Yes, because now we’ll have to wait until the next invitational to see her again.” Marya presses herself into his chest — warm and steady, as always.

They had arrived back at their room late, having spent most of the evening with Elizabeth. Vasily had done most of the talking, an out of character choice that Marya was most grateful for. It gave her room to listen and absorb in a moment where she might have been working, scrambling for the right word, the right translation, the right feeling. For a moment, she could afford to drink her vodka and learn.

The young woman was from Kentucky, had found herself alone in life more often than not. She thought she spent too much money on clothes, but didn’t want to give that up. She had attended university. Her birth mother had been a mathematician, something she wondered helped her become who she is. Vasily, somehow, managed to tease her about her endgame and she laughed.

She still lived in her adopted mother’s home. She preferred Beth to “Elizabeth” or “Liza”, as the Soviet team called her. She smoked while they talked, but not while they ate. She thought about gifting Vasily a better tie next time he defeated her.

She said she was still embarrassed about her and Vasily’s first game in Paris. She laughed when Marya complimented her Russian. She ordered soda water and lemon when she finished her coffee. She asked after their son.

She promised to write them, the beginning of a rivalry turned friendship.

Their return flight to Moscow was the next afternoon.

Any effort to get to know the American grandmaster better would have to wait. It was a thought that followed Marya into the elevator, down the hallway towards their room, and now into bed with them. Her infatuation would have to wait. Her husband’s infatuation would have to wait as well.

Marya bit her thumbnail instead of her lip. “Are you alright with me intruding, Vasya?”

“Since when have you ever intruded?” Vasily presses a kiss to the pulse point below her ear. One of his hands slides, slow and soothing, where it rests on the curve of her waist. “We don’t often have the same objects of interest. I was glad to learn we share this one.”

Marya sighed, easily relaxing into each touch. He knew her well, was the only person in life who knew her through and through. He knew how she liked her morning coffee and afternoon tea; what earrings she liked best for press conferences, that she preferred scarves to hats. She knew his favorite ties, his favorite cufflinks, why he preferred to part his hair to the side. She knew how to make his jokes sound correctly to the journalists and their crackling flashbulbs.

He knew she liked women as much as she liked men. She knew he preferred knowing someone before _knowing_ them. She knew she had been his first and he rarely looked elsewhere. He knew what lust looked like in her eyes and encouraged her to act on it.

Only ever encouraged it.

_What would I have done without your understanding, Syura?_

“Mashunya,” Vasily nipped at her ear, earning her renewed attention. “Rumor has it she’s adventurous. Perhaps the idea won’t be as… disagreeable to her as you might imagine.”

“If it is, then I’ll leave you to it. It’s been a long time since you’ve—.”

Vasily tilts her head up, silencing her with a hard kiss. “No, no. Don’t play these games in your head, darling. That is meant for me alone.”


	4. Yekaterinburg

The gloss was starting to wear from the magazine. Marya frowned, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the fading triangle at the corner of one page. It had only been her’s for a few months, smuggled home inside one of Vasily’s strategy books. A contraband western beauty magazine purchased in Paris under the nose of their agents.

Well, contraband only for someone like her, she supposed.

She had bought it for the articles, the dresses modeled in technicolor. More ideas to appease her stifled style sensibilities, new ideas for tailoring and sewing her own creations. All pitched to their agents, their State minders as better ways to represent the State abroad — _how will the West take us seriously as competitors if I dress this way_ , she had argued once. _I cannot do what you ask, I cannot do my job properly if you expect me to dress like a czarist peasant._

The agents had become complacent with her, deciding she was a frivolous woman. They overlooked her shopping trips, the magazines and scarves and products she brought home with her. If they didn’t see it flashed about, they wouldn’t have a reason to report it. But Vasily still insisted on being careful, just in case they one day changed their minds.

She hadn’t looked at it that often, had she?

Curled up in an armchair in the bedroom, Marya tapped her fingernails against her cheekbones and stared at the advertisements. Young women sporting eyeshadow colors and swooping eyeliner that would hardly be allowed on her face outside of their home. She moved past them quickly. Her nail polish collection drew enough unfair scrutiny.

Turning a page, she settled on a favorite. A full page lipstick ad for Helena Rubinstein in bright reds, black, and shiny gold. The latest gimmick: heart-shaped lipstick meant to match the curves of a pout and angles of the Cupid’s bow.

Marya was drawn to it, inexplicably. She normally didn’t go in for those kind of things — fancy names, different shapes, gold and silver tubes — but she liked the little tube.

She ran a finger down the side of the page, where each color was shown and listed by name. She read each one, casting out the purples, a few pinks, and nude tones that would wash her out. Reds always appealed to her, one red in particular. A bright, rich carmine.

She smiled at the name.

 _Give Me Fever_.

It was a silly memory, lingering in the back of her brain. She liked it all the same. Vasily rarely drank at home and not at all during tournaments, but he had indulged on their final night in Brussels. A double vodka over ice, sipped on over hours in their room, left him pink-cheeked and loose. Looser then he had been on their wedding day.

Tie loose, crooked smile, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held her tightly to his chest, the radio playing softly in the low light. An American song, sultry and slow, with an easy tempo for swaying, for pressing, for touching. A bass note thrumming in the air, up her legs, through their palms, singing in her blood as she pressed close to him. By the end of the second verse, she was breathing hot on her husband’s neck, delighting as his hand moved from her back, to her waist, lower...

“Fever,” Marya hummed, tapping a fingernail over the printed color swatch. “Fever indeed.”

She stood, magazine in hand, and walked out of their bedroom. Her stockinged feet made no sound on the plush rugs of their apartment home. In all the years they had lived there, Marya and Vasily had a habit of sneaking up on one another, accidentally startling one another out of reading, dressing, fixing dinner. Marya did it more often, Vasily’s height making it harder to be completely silent.

She made a point of not doing startling her husband that evening. He was preparing for an interview with their minders the next morning, had been shut up in his small office most of the day. She turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, leaning up against the frame and watching him quietly for a moment. Totally in profile, brow furrowed as he read through something — through a stack of somethings — his tea cup from lunch standing stone cold nearby.

She rapped her knuckles against the wall, drawing his eyes. “Am I interrupting?”

Vasily smiled, exhausted, and shook his head. “Never.”

“Will you be alright?” Marya asked as she stepped inside.

“I believe so,” Vasily sighed. He ran a hand over his dark hair, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankle. “In spite of our… performance in Paris, I believe _we_ will be alright.”

“If you say so.”

Vasily hummed, a noncommittal sort of noise. He ran his blue eyes over her, landing pointedly at the magazine. He nodded towards it. “What do you have there?”

“A favor to ask,” Marya answered. She looked down at the magazine, where her finger was tucked into the pages to find the ad again. “Are you still writing Elizabeth?”

“I am. Should I assume your favor is for her?”

“It sounds dangerous when you say it that way, but yes…”

“What is it?”

“Here.” Marya approached him. She flipped the magazine open to the lipstick advertisement as she seated herself on the arm of his chair. She folded back the opposite page and handed it to him, leaning into the arm he slid around her hips. “I know it’s frivolous, but they only sell it in America—.”

“And you would like a new lipstick, dearest?” Vasily looked up at her, a mischievous smile pulling at his features.

“I would, if it isn’t too much trouble to ask.”

“Of course not. Nothing is too much trouble if it keeps my pretty young wife happy.”

“I’m not that much younger than you, Syura.”

“Only teasing, Masha. I am only teasing,” Vasily grinned, then set the magazine on his desk. “At least, _I_ always will be. Reporters usually are not, and I’m not keen on reading it any more than I already have today.”

Marya raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they think of me?”

“That’s what they think of _me_. An old man who’s found himself with a young sweet wife to dote on him.” Vasily exhaled, frustration piercing through his relaxed expression for a brief moment. He squeezed her waist and looked up at her. “Am I really so unappealing, Masha?”

“Well, you are very imposing looking,” Marya answered. She rested her hand his, guiding it forward onto her thigh and squeezing. “And you do have a few grey…” She laughed lightly to herself, then looked down at him. “Perhaps I should put some silver in my own?”

Vasily smirked and shook his head. He reached back for the magazine, shaking it so it was propped up between his fingers and thumb. “Perhaps you should tell me what color you would like?”

“You tell me.” Marya waved a hand over the color watches. “Come on, Syura, I know you read English better than you speak it. And the answer is very obvious if you think about it.”

“My English is only good because you helped it be so… Alright then, more reading…” Vasily sighed and lowered his eyes to the page, his brow furrowed as he scanned each name. Marya followed his gaze, waiting until he reached the right one. The tilt of his head shifted. He blinked a few times, a quiet laugh shaking through his shoulders. He pointed. “Would it be this one here?”

Marya grinned brightly. “Yes, very good.”

“Don’t talk down to me, madam Borgova,” he teased with a similarly bright grin. Holding the page up to her face, his eyes flickered back and forth between her face and the ad. “It’s your color, Mashunya. If I send the letter tomorrow, she should get it in time for Moscow.”

“Thank you.” Marya dropped a kiss on his forehead and stood. “A perfect Soviet red for your pretty young wife, Vasya.”

Vasily laughed that time, loud and clear. Marya loved the sound, always had. “Yes, a nice new lipstick for my pretty young wife, who is going to let _me_ make dinner tonight.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll let my old bear of a husband make dinner… if he ever gets his nose out of those articles that only make him worry!”


	5. Brussels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> It took me longer than I thought to put the last few chapters of this fic together. I am here again, with a new chapter with the Borgovs. Beth makes her reappearance next time, I promise, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

The train ride from Yekaterinburg to Moscow was long, but with the benefit of small comforts like warm tea, a good book, their assigned agents sitting far enough away for their small family to let down their guard for an hour or two. One their old stand-by, a man who’s name Marya only remembered upon addressing him directly. The other was new, fresh, the next in an ever rotating cast of young men believing they would change the world in a few short months. Believing they could defend the national team and its most prominent member from corruption from the West.

Marya guessed he was perhaps 26, university educated, an optimist.

She guessed he would last four months.

Vasily had switched from his usual reading — chess books, previous games of his soon-to-be opponents, articles about himself with a disdainful expression — to a novel for the long trip. It was State approved and unassuming, yes, but unusual none the less. Their son, Nikolai, had begun with school work, but soon curled up in his seat and drifted off to sleep.

Marya sat with her legs cross, a magazine spread across her lap, the pages shielding two letters. One from her mother on old lined paper and written in black ink, the swooping Cyrillic soaring between the pale blue lines. The other from the American, Elizabeth Harmon, done up on crisp stationary and written in precise, shaky script in skipping blue ink. Marya was, understandably, more focused on Elizabeth’s.

She quietly apologized to her mother for not reading her’s first.

Elizabeth and her husband had been trading letters in the months since their last meeting in Paris. Marya hadn’t joined in, knowing suspicion would be kept to a low bubble if it were only between the two chess players. Vasya always let her read the letters, oftentimes dropping them in front of her at dinner with a small smile.

This one was brief. There was a short recounting of a trip she had taken, how she had repainted the shutters on her mother’s house. She wished Vasily the best of luck in Belgium, the next tournament, as she would no longer be attending. She hoped she would get to see them at the next one in Moscow. Below, in the same medium blue ink, was a carefully drawn and colored-in grid bordered with numbers and letters.

Marya smiled. A chess board.

They were painfully dull, in all honesty. The paragraphs exchanged very few pleasantries before moving into the next moves of a correspondence match. From what Vasily told her, Elizabeth was succeeding in the middle game and would likely win. Marya had once asked jokingly if they had been writing before Paris. The way Vasily went quiet and looked only into his coffee cup gave her all the answer she needed. Much to his surprise, she smiled and congratulated herself on being so intuitive. On knowing his mind so well.

The flight from Moscow to Belgium held none of the comforts of the trains. Marya had never liked airplanes, has always gripped Vasily’s hand to breaking as the machine shuddered through take off and landing. The fear that gripped her washed over him like water off a duck’s back. It wasn’t that Vasily was more at ease than she was or that he had spent more time in the machines. He had wanted to be a pilot when he was younger, had at tried to enlist in the Air Force a few month’s shy of his 17th birthday. He would have succeeded had one of the officers had kept his mouth shut; instead the young Grandmaster was hauled off to Moscow for a stern talking to and he had never tried again.

Vasily and Marya had no plan for when they landed, no plan for when they arrived at the hotel. They had learned long ago they could only plan so far before someone interceded. They were not content to be shuttled to and fro without a say in the matter, but they did without fuss. Marya’s arm looped through Vasily’s, Vasily holding on to Kolya’s small hand. The government watcher’s a constant shadow at their backs.

Elizabeth had asked them before if they hated it. Being boxed in, watched on all sides. She had minders in America, had had her own personal agent the first time she had come to Moscow. She had chafed under the watchful eyes, the man’s odd insistence on talking to her.

 _How is it not stifling for you?_ She had wondered in the quiet enclosure of the restaurant booth.

 _They let us out, don’t they?_ Vasily had answered, holding Elizabeth’s eyes as she stared at him.

 _I hadn’t considered that_. Beth had murmured, mystified. Marya had watched as the young woman blinked back to life after minutes of thoughtful stasis, the gears in her head turning behind her eyes. She had gone smoothly back to her coffee, her dinner, picked up a new line of conversation. But Marya saw the curiosity linger, a hunger to know and ask remaining in her large brown eyes.

Marya had wanted her to ask.

In the months intervening, she could not explain the urge.

Even now, as their small family walked through the old Belgian hotel’s lobby, Marya could not explain the need, the want, to know all that Beth Harmon had wanted to ask them.

For the rest of the event, Marya put it out of her mind. She watched over thin teacups as Vasily prepared for matches and reviewed ones he had just won. She smiled through the flashing camera bulbs and repetitive questions of press junkets, patiently translating her husband’s words and squeezing his hand when he thanked her for making him human to the West. She held an umbrella and let her mind wander as they trailed Kolya through the Institute of Natural Sciences, matching his excitement at giant skeletons, prehistoric tools, and insects preserved under glass. She lay curled against Vasily’s side at night, leaning heavily into his warmth, his sturdy frame, the soft thud of his heart in his chest.

It was only later, as they were again walking the halls of the Institute of Natural Sciences, that Marya understood what Beth had wanted to ask. Holding her son’s hand in the insect Hall, listening to Vasily read each name and where they had been collected, Marya regarded the clear protective glass with a fresh mind.

“It’s us…”She whispered without thinking.

A hand settled gently on her shoulder. “Mashunya?”

She shook her head, pressing her lips together. “Just remembering something.”

“Something about hissing cockroaches?” Vasily asked with a quiet amused lilt.

“No, from Paris. From our dinner the last night,” Marya clarified, still transfixed by the beautiful, still wings. “I had thought something, but… But I didn’t understand why until just now.”

“Can you say what?”

“Do you remember, Vasya?”

“Most of it, yes.”

Marya pointed up at the display wall, pointing at a large moth in the center of a frame. “This is how she sees us. Stuck.”

Vasily might have remembered what she was referring to. He might not have and managed to keep it under wraps. His clear eyes followed the line of her finger up to the moth, then trailed over the rows and rows of other specimens, finally settling back down on her face. “Are we stuck, Mashunya?”

“I…” Marya finally looked at him. “I don’t think we are. But that’s how they see us, how she sees us.”

“As stuck bugs?”

“Display pieces. Valuable, shiny, but… frozen.”

Vasily scanned her face, confusion creasing his brow. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he steered her away from the wall and pushed their son towards another gallery with a bright smile. Their watchers fell into step, almost exactly three meters behind them. “Are we frozen?”

“No, but they don’t know that,” Marya sighed. “ _She_ doesn’t know that…” She paused as they stepped into the glittering realm of crystals, precious metals, and cut gems. “Vasya, when we’re in Moscow… I’d like to change that. I’d like to change her mind.”

“Would you like my help?”

“Yes… Once I’ve decided what I’m going to do, yes. You don’t—.”

“I never mind, Mashunya.”


	6. Moscow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beth has made her second entrance and we are now in endgame, folks!
> 
> I never know how to write Beth's dialogue, so I fussed over this chapter quite a lot. I hope it does for the story what I intended it to. Regardless, thank you all for the lovely reception, the comments and kudos. I am constantly surprised and gratified. Thank you so much and enjoy!
> 
> Orchid

She could find that particular shade of red anywhere.

Across a crowded hotel lobby, looking over a hotel balcony down onto a sea of chess players and their traveling companions, she could spot that rich red as easily as ever. Warm, catching the light with every toss of her head as she spoke with future and past competitors, greeted friends, checked into her room, passed of her bags to the bellhop.

From her perch with a cigarette held in her fingers, Marya Sergeyevna Borgova had no desire to join them.

Somewhere, down in that crush of humanity, Vasily was there too. Her husband had departed from their hotel room ten minutes before to meet other members of the Soviet team, to get comfortable before the press swooped in and he needed her.

Kolya was spending the next week with her parents in their dacha. Usually their son attended tournaments with them, further building their image as a happy Soviet family. He had been excited to spend the time with his grandparents, but Marya had to admit she missed her son. He was always at her side when Vasily was not. He gave her something to fuss over, something to smile over when the State’s restrictions became too much. There would be no outings to museums or cathedrals with him, no bell towers, armories, arsenals or palaces to tour when she needed air. The were in home territory, but Marya knew they were no less supervised.

Perhaps more supervised.

There was more at stake when the whole of the Rus could watch from home.

Marya took a deep drag off her cigarette — deeper than usual. She usually wasn’t one for smoking, treating the action as an occasional habit rather than a vice. A treat to soothe itching feelings, much the same way Vasya treated his drinks. Exhaling that cloud of smoke, the tobacco warming her throat and tongue, Marya wished she could move from her spot. She didn’t want to join the crush before she was required to. She didn’t want to return to their hotel room for fear of being alone.

So she watched the redheaded American from the top of the stairs. Watched with a faint smile on her lips as the young woman wove through the crowd, greeting people as she went, to land as Vasily’s side. Watched as her hand rested on Vasily’s shoulder, as she tilted her head up to him and smiled, as he smiled back. As they talked for a few minutes, the rest of the team greeting her like old friends, as they laughed.

Watched as Elizabeth’s dark eyes found her, as she excused herself and climbed the stairs in her direction.

Marya blinked, keeping her surprise as quiet as she could. Normally, she would have hidden the cigarette, snubbing it out on her shoe and hiding it in a glove or whatever was handy. But she could not have moved fast enough if she tried. In a blink, Elizabeth was up the stairs and walking towards her, something held in her hands.

“Elizabeth,” Marya greeted smoothly. “How are you?”

She leaned in to kiss the other woman on each cheek. An old habit, a sign of friendship, something she did for all her friends. And yet, Marya could feel her heart flutter in her chest; could feel a match flame burst to life in her skin. A feeling she knew well but had not felt in some time. The self-same feeling that had washed over her the first time Vasily had kissed her. It struck her, but she pushed forward.

“I’m well, Marya,” Elizabeth answered in her neat textbook Russian. She was still wrapped in her black coat, standing taller than Marya remembered in black trousers and short heels. “And yourself?”

“Quite well. It’s good to see you. Your flight was easy, I hope.”

“Yes, remarkably. Even with my agent talking in my ear the whole time.” Elizabeth smiled, treating the sentence as a joke but not meaning it as one. “I’ve missed Moscow, more than I’m allowed to admit.”

Marya laughed lightly. “She’s a grand old city, not beautiful but proud. I’ve missed her as well.”

“You don’t… oh.”

“Not all Russians are Muscovites, Liza,” Marya replied between puffs on her cigarette. “We live in Sverdlovsk. Far east of here.”

“Beth, please… I’ve never heard of it, that city.”

“You might have. It used to live under a different name not so long ago.”

“Perhaps I’ll see it for myself, someday.”

“I hope you will. Our trains are very comfortable.” Marya took a last drag before snubbing out the cigarette. She smiled at the redhead, feeling that fluttering return. Catching Vasya moving up the stairs towards them. Only so much time could exist in the small spaces, the time in between. “But you did not come up here to ask me about the railway, did you Beth?”

“Admittedly no. I, um… I come with a gift.” Elizabeth changed the grip of her hands, holding a slim powder pink box out to her. She dropped her hands as soon as the box was in Marya’s hands, large dark eyes watching as she opened it and tilted a shining gold cylinder into her fingers. “I would have had it to you in Belgium, but something came up. I figured better late than never. I hope I got the color right, Marya.”

Marya felt herself laughing as she turned her eyes up to her husband as he reached the top of the stairs. She held up the lipstick tube for him to see, then looked back to Elizabeth. The fluttering persisted. “Yes, you did. Thank you very much for bringing it.”

“Oh, it was no trouble at all.”

“Will you let me repay you?”

“Repay me? It was barely five dollars—.”

“Then perhaps another dinner?” Vasily stepped forward, interrupting in his low, resonant voice. He was the very picture of seriousness in his dour suit and combed-back hair. His eyes softened as he looked to his wife, stayed soft when they landed on Elizabeth. “Perhaps the place we went to on our last visit, Marya?”

“When?” Elizabeth replied immediately. “I’m not busy until tomorrow.”

The small kernel of heat in Marya’s skin grew. The fluttering had turned into large wingbeats. She stared at Vasily to keep in control of herself. “Don’t you have a practice with the team?”

“Yes, but it won’t last long,” Vasily waved her away. “We shouldn’t take longer than an hour or so.” He settled a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Beth, how would you like to see more of Moscow?”

“Are you offering?” She shot back with a slight smile.

“I am, but I was thinking my wife could be your guide.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth’s eyes trailed back to Marya, wide and blinking. Moth-like and imploring. No trace of disappointment in her tone or features. “Would you mind, Mrs. Borgova?”

Marya swallowed tightly. She held tightly to the lipstick tube. “Let me get my coat.”

~*~

Elizabeth gasped as they turned another corner, strode into a new square. The streetlights lit up her face and copper curls, making her look older than Marya knew she was. “I thought you were supposed to be godless communists?”

“Come again?” Marya’s eyebrows raised.

Elizabeth pointed in front of them. “You have a Christmas tree!”

“New Year’s tree, actually. That’s an old tradition, far older than the State.”

“How—?”

“To the rest of the world, I am merely my husband’s translator. But here, at home, I’m an academic. I’ve read much of history in my career, Beth.” Marya held out a hand to the young woman, pushing that line of questioning away in favor of another. “Would you like to see it up close?”

Beth didn’t need asking twice. She took Marya’s fingers and led the way up to the edge of the branches and ornaments. She held them as the two women circled the tree once, then again, Beth’s eyes sparkling in delight in the night air. She held them still as they stood, gazing up at the star adorning the top. As their breath turned to icy clouds in the frigid winter air as Beth asked plenty of questions and Marya answered warmly.

“It’s beautiful… just like in New York,” Beth murmured in awe, her hat nearly falling off due to the tilt of her head.

Marya was no longer looking at the tree, but at Elizabeth. At the curve of her nose and cheeks in the soft fairy lights. At the lay of her hair at her shoulders. At the glisten in her dark brown eyes, framed by dark lashes. At the petal pink pout of her lips.

“You look beautiful in it.” The words slid into the air in crisp English.

The drew the young woman’s interest immediately. “You… you think so?”

Marya nodded once. “I’ve thought so for a long time now… Vasya agrees.”

“I-.” Whatever she was going to say, Beth cut off quickly. Her eyes travelled up the branches of the tree again, halting midway up. A slow breath escapes her lips. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Of course not.”

“Just asking. Politeness and all.” Beth reached for her pocket, pulling out a lighter and a fresh carton of cigarettes. “I’m trying to better mind my manners… Who knows if I’ll succeed.”

Marya cleared her throat as the younger woman lit up. “I apologize if I took you by surprise.”

“You did,” Beth breathed. “I am surprised. Not in a bad way.”

“In what sort of way?”

“Relief?” Beth offered with a shrug. She smokes for a minute or two, clearly choosing her next words. Picking a few, then casting them away, over and over until she finds the one she deems the best. Marya watched the flickering in her expression as she did so, finding something familiar in it. “You both… I’ve been _thinking_ about both of you since Paris. A little daydream, that was all I thought, I—… Well, I thought I was lucky to have made friends. Two friends… I hadn’t thought beyond that.”

“Neither had we,” Marya admitted. “Truthfully, Vasya and I were wondering whether the idea would be unacceptable to you. The two of us, I mean. Instead of just—.”

“Just him,” Beth finished. “I wondered if you… if you were, or if it was a go between arrangement. I don’t know. I… I like the idea, just to be clear.”

“What now then?” Marya asked quietly.

Elizabeth huffed a laugh, smirking around her cigarette. “I’m suddenly not very hungry, I don’t know about you.”

“I’m no longer interested in dinner, no…” Marya squeezed the woman’s hand. She had nearly forgotten they were still clasped together. “The hotel then?”

“Yes.”

“Collect my husband-.”

“Then order room service?”

“Perfect.”

“It’s a date.”


	7. Moscow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we're back with the beginning of the end, and Vasily's POV (finally).
> 
> Enjoy!

When Marya presses her lips to Elizabeth’s — softly, noses brushing in a way that feels more intimate than the kiss itself — the young woman steps back.

It had been going well between the three of them. Elizabeth and Marya had cut off Vasily as he descended the stairs, intercepting his walk to the lobby and the restaurant beyond. Marya had only needed to smile in his direction for him to turn and follow the two women back to the Borgov’s hotel room. They had ordered dinner and tea, a pot of coffee for later. It was, perhaps, more indulgent than they liked to be during trips. But their watchers had retired early for the evening, their guard sufficiently down with the tournament on home turf.

Vasily was glad for it, glad for the time and lenience it afforded the trio. He was glad for the change of plans and the safety of the hotel room. It leant far more ease, comfort, intimacy to the dinner than their previous. More than even a quiet restaurant would have.

They talked without air in the conversation, sliding easily from one thing to the next. Beth asked about their son, about Brussels, about their home far from Moscow. Marya and Beth discussed music and books, floating back and forth between English and Russian. Vasily had collected his chess board, setting up the most recent position in their correspondence game and challenged her to finish it in person. Beth had lost and, to cover her sourness at the defeat, turned on the radio.

Marya had sat back, coffee in hand, and watched them play. An old habit, developed over the years of their marriage and some before then. Her eyes patiently following his hand as it moved, a contemplative look on her face. Vasily always preened under that gaze and deftly hid the pride he felt when she watched him win. Even at the room’s coffee table, even a low stakes and silly game, he warmed at it. That warmth grew, knowing she had been watching the other woman as much as she watched him.

Attention not divided, but shared.

Traipsing back over to them, Beth resets the board and turns the white pieces to her fingers. She moves a knight to d4, then flashes him a brief smile. “Re-match.”

Vasily matches her smile. “Will we be finishing this in letters?”

“Tonight. I’m not leaving until it’s finished.”

“Until you win, I assume?”

“You know me,” Beth pushes herself up to standing. “While you think on _that_ … Marya, let’s dance.”

Marya looked up at her. “Dance?”

“Please? I do it with friends at home.”

It didn’t take much more than that for Marya to abandon her coffee cup and saucer on the table. In stockinged feet, she walked away from the chairs, leading Beth by the hand and turning her slowly.

Now it was Vasily’s turn to watch. He moves a knight to f6 and sits back in his chair, a glass of water balanced on the arm. He imagined he should feel like he was intruding; that he should feel more like a voyeur on this moment between his wife and the young American he’d come to see as something of a friend. They were wrapped up in one another, holding one another close, whispering things just under the current of the music. Turning around one another, footfalls quiet on the plush rugs.

He had been invited in by both of them, was as much a part of this as either of the women. But he could not bring himself to do anything but sit and watch. Closely, carefully. Absorbing the tenderness, the warmth, the lust that passed between them. They turned and swayed, tripping over one another’s toes, giggling lightly at each fumble. Vasily felt himself smile at the pair. The woman he loved and trusted; the woman who had become his best challenge. In front of him, wrapped around one another.

When Marya kisses her, Beth’s hand lifts. Her fingers press lightly to her bottom lip, tracing the line of her Cupid’s bow and the red remnants of Marya’s lipstick — the lipstick Elizabeth had brought her — left there.

The room falls into hesitant stillness for several long minutes. Beth’s eyes never leave her’s. Marya doesn’t move from her spot on the hotel carpet, the music they had been dancing too playing softly behind her. Vasily sits unmoving, his face falling into his typical seriousness. Marya tenses, as if she can feel the protective glint without seeing it.

“Elizabeth—,”

The young woman’s head snaps to the side, red curls bouncing against her jaw. Her large eyes settle on Vasily, lips already parted to speak. She pauses, waiting for unspoken permission.

He nods once.

“Grandmaster Borgov?” She whispers.

He softens at the shared title. “Yes?”

“How would you like me to kiss your wife?”

For a moment, Vasily can only stare. He was caught up in the abrupt end, the swift closing of one scene for the start of another. Beth's eyes never leave him, not for a moment, but his wander. From the American, to his wife, to the drink in his hand. Another invitation extended — _join in, bridge the gap_. He uncrosses his legs, setting both feet on the floor. After another moment, he sets his drink aside and stands to meet it.

Taking Beth by the shoulders, he turns her towards Marya, soaking in the intensity of his wife's gaze. Heady, surprised, worried longing. He can only offer her a reassuring nod. He presses a kiss to the young woman's soft cheek, tasting the ghost of his wife's lipstick there.

"Look, Liza,” he whispers, nose brushing the shell of her ear. He feels her shiver against his chest, the warmth in his chest growing. “Look at her like you do your opponents. Your answer is there.”

“Vasya-.” Marya begins, then cuts herself off. She rarely appears uncertain, unsure. She looks small in her dress, something Vasily can not abide.

“You need to learn to focus,” he tells her quietly, releasing Beth’s shoulders and walking towards his wife. He wraps his arms securely around her, pressing her to his chest. He runs light fingers over the back of her neck and through her dark hair, feeling the tension begin to leave her slight frame. Vasily turns his eyes back to Beth, standing exactly where he left her. “Marya is not some board for you to close your eyes and stare at in your head. You have to focus with _all_ your senses.”

The younger woman shifts her weight from one foot to the other, imperceptible save for the subtle movement of her hair. Her wide eyes move over Marya, over him too. Soft, searching — perhaps the most patient and controlled Vasily can remember seeing her outside of game play.

There was always an edge to her, a confidence that he respected but did not entirely understand; he chalked it up to cultural differences, to a idiosyncrasy of the prickly personality traits they shared.

He had seen it over the chessboard minutes earlier.

It was gone now.

She let out a slow breath, coming to her decision. “Vasya?”

“Yes?”

“Show me how?”

Vasily thought, then tilted Marya’s chin up to look at him. Everything he had hoped to see was there — heat, want, the unspoken ask for him to lead the way (one he knew better on his own features than hers). He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. His other hand wandered to the zipper of her dress, drawing the pull all the way down her back. “Go lay down, Mashunya. I’ll teach her.”


	8. Moscow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, y'all. Here we are: the endgame! I hope you all have enjoyed this story and I hope that I might one day be back with more of these three. I have a sneaking suspicion that this particular well has not yet run dry for me.
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely reception and kind words. I cannot express how lovely it's been. Thank you, thank you, thank you :)
> 
> A very special thanks to @pinkcupboardwitch for helping me workshop the dialogue in this chapter, as well as brainstorming most of this fic with me. You're wonderful and I love storying with you.

Beth held her breath, trying to remember the last time she had been so still. The air in her lungs froze. Her vibrating nerves stilled to nothing. Even her pulse in her neck seemed to vanish as she watched Marya Borgova shimmy out of her dress and step around her husband to perch on the large hotel bed.

Since childhood, she had always been moving. Never lingering, never waiting, never hesitating. Even if she fell flat on her face and made an utter fool of herself, she would push herself back up and keep going. Alma had once said it was redheaded stubbornness. A teacher had called it “survivor’s persistence”. Beth had confused it for personality, having never known any different, letting it drive her to the edge.

She had been young then.

She was still young now, she supposed.

Something had snapped and regrown inside her over the years. She was not the same woman who had sat across from Vasily Borgov in Mexico City. She was not the same woman who had beaten him in Moscow. Beth knew it and, throughout this vague dalliance’s course, that he knew it himself.

She had watched his natural seriousness slip from his shoulders over tea and through chess pieces. She had watched a warmth and comfort overcome his features, a pride when his wife would glance his way. Beth had studied them over that first, strange dinner in Paris — their closeness and gentleness towards one another; how they worked in tandem, one an extension of the other. She remembered feeling herself pulled in by them. She remembered wondering what that felt like, being so happily tied to another; having that happiness returned to her.

Beth hadn’t understood where it was headed then. She had spent weeks afterwards wondering why they were both interested in getting to know with her let alone conversing with her. Her minder from Washington had insisted it must be a Soviet ploy, a tantalizing play to lure her into defecting. She had told him sharply that if he kept harping on how everything was a “Soviet Trick”, she would consider defection if only to get away from his nonsense.

“Liza,” Vasily said softly, unbuttoning his collar and cuffs. He was standing next to the bed where Marya lounged, the lacy hem of her slip riding up one thigh. “Are you alright?”

Her eyes flickered between the two of them, her heart fluttering in her chest. The question of why remained, but Beth understood what she felt now was nothing like what she had felt in that Paris bar years ago with Cleo.

“Yes. Fine.” She reached for the side zip of her trousers. She slid it down then pushed the fabric down over her hips and stepped up to Vasily. His eyes darkened, running down her legs appraisingly. She offered a kittenish smile. “What? I’m not going to be the last one dressed.”

The man allowed himself a smile as he reached for her. He ran soft fingers over her face and neck, trailing over her shoulders and chest, settling at the hem of her sweater. “Arms up, Liza.”

She obeyed, her smile widening. “Your doting father is showing, Vasya.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Vasily replied, tossing the sweater in the direction of her trousers. “Go on then.”

“Weren’t you going to show me?”

He shrugged. “I can’t direct you if you don’t start, now can I?”

Beth exhaled and nodded. She turned towards the other woman, who held out her hand in invitation. Beth took it and stepped to the edge of the mattress. She kept hold of the hand, as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Marya seemed alright with that, her other hand freely roaming over Beth’s collarbones, shoulders, ribs, the plain edge of her bra and underwear. Featherlight and prickling, the anticipation building slowly in her skin. What was once still now burst to life and Beth leaned in to kiss her competitor’s wife.

As Marya pulled her in, pulled her down, Vasily stayed where he was. Were it any other person, Beth would have found it unsettling. His gaze had always been intense, calculating, appraising. Beth found herself rising to meet the expectation, wanting to put on the best performance she could. For him, for Marya, for herself. If she did her best, Beth figured, this might happen again.

Beth desperately wanted it to happen again, and they had just begun.

Marya deepened the kiss, her fingernails lightly dragging down Beth’s back. Not enough to cut, not enough to inspire a moan, but enough to stoke the already burning need in her stomach. The familiar voice in her head — the one that had driven her through most of life — pushed her forward now, pushed her towards _more, more, more_.

A hand settled at the base of her spine. “Liza.”

Beth broke the kiss, huffing a laugh. “Finally joining in?”

“Would you like me to?”

“I’ve been waiting.” Beth pushed herself up onto her knees, one of Marya’s legs running between hers. The slip had risen up to the other woman’s waist. Her lipstick had smeared, her eyes bright and warm. A mischievous grin pulled at Marya’s lips as she lifted a knee, pressing it gently to Beth’s center. The gasp escaping her lips was a sigh of relief.

And Vasily stepped forward to catch her. An arm wrapped around her middle, the other trailing over her bare waist and hips. He perched his chin on her shoulder, looking down at his wife. “Darling, please.”

“Oh, but Syura, look. She’s enjoying it.”

“Clearly,” Vasily chuckled. He placed barely-there kisses down the column of Beth’s neck, ending with a delicate bite at the sensitive spot where her shoulder began. Beth inhaled sharply, back arching into his chest. The man hardly reacted, his hand and mouth still moving. “But, I have another plan. If you would let me.”

Marya sighed and lowered her knee, feigning disappointment. “If I didn’t trust your ideas completely…”

“We’d have far less fun in this life, my darling. Now please, let me work.” Vasily’s hands move, settling at Beth’s hips. She feels his mouth move up to her ear. She’s convinced she can feel all of him this way, despite his clothes. She can smell his cologne, the gel in his hair, the day on his skin. Beth leans fully into it, surrendering. She hope he knew how important that was. “Liza, come back. Stand up.”

She does, making sure they are always touching as she does. He’s still dressed, doesn’t appear to be undressing any time soon. But she wanted to have an effect on him; wanted to do her best to pull _him_ apart at the seams, even if she couldn’t do the same to his tailored shirt.

Vasily leaned around her, pulling Marya to the edge of the mattress by her knee. He rested a heavy hand on Beth’s shoulder. “Kneel down. Closer to her… Very good.”

“Very good?” Beth teased, tracing curlicues higher and higher on Marya’s thigh. “High praise coming from you.”

“Do you need praise, Elizabeth?” Vasily answered. She feels him settle behind her, his presence as all consuming as his gaze. Even blind to him, Beth could feel all the gravity he held. He leaned against her, resuming his nipping at her neck and roaming hands.

“N-No.” Her breath hitched in her throat.

He hummed, a sound she couldn’t read just from hearing it. He shifted, pulling her hips back against his, leaving his hands at her waist. “Take off her knickers… Have you ever done this before?”

Beth shook her head, hooking her fingers under the elastic at Marya’s hips. She slid the fabric down, all the way down, dropping the silk and lace unceremoniously

“Then this will be a lesson for you. We will start slow, move slowly. People tend to cover up their mistakes with speed.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Are you?”

Beth swallowed. She didn’t know how to answer.

Vasily swiftly took over, dropping the matter. “Go on. Follow instinct. Light and slow, take your time.”

Marya let out a low gasp as Beth’s tongue pressed to her. Lightly at first, just as Vasily had instructed. Marya made a noise and Vasily instructed her to add pressure pressure, to add touch. His instructions came in time with the movement of his wife’s hips, the cadence of her voice.

Vasily squeezed at her hips and backside as she worked, the touch grounding her. His instructions were a caress themselves — gentle, patient, kind. Beth found herself luxuriating under it, soaking it in like rain drops on dry earth. “Very good. Listen to her. This is what I meant, you see?”

“I see,” Beth panted, pulling away. “I see, Vasya, I do.”

“Very good.” One of his hands slid from her hip to between her leg, moving in small circles against her. Beth wilted, head pressed to the comforter, only to whine when his hand stopped moving. “Keep going and I will, Liza.”

Marya was wriggling against the bed now. Her hand petted and tangled in Beth’s hair, her legs tensing at Beth’s shoulders. The noises were new, delicious. Something else Beth was eager to soak up, wallow in, preserve in her memory for later. Vasily’s fingers did move again, painfully slow and far too sweet for her liking, but Beth wouldn’t stop to admonish him. She was too busy drowning — caught between them and floating.

When Marya broke with a shrill cry, Beth didn’t have time to hold onto the feeling. No, Vasily had other ideas. He pulled her back, cradling her against his chest as he worked her through her underwear. One of his hands sat heavy at her collarbone, keeping her secure against his shoulder as he murmured a litany of Russian in her ears. Words Beth might have understood were her blood, bones, nerves, breath not singing in her ears.

Finally, when she herself broke, Vasily and Marya were there to catch her. Ease her back down to earth. Settle her back down. Dazed and dizzy and happy, Beth could only lay limply against his chest, letting Marya press kisses to both their faces.

“You didn’t even loosen your tie?” Beth murmured.

“He kept the tie on too when we were making Kolya,” Marya says dreamily, winding a lock of Beth’s hair around her finger.

“Be fair, Marya. You didn’t take your dress off either… Or even your underwear.” Vasily continues in the same thoughtful tone: “You were in too much of a hurry.”

Beth looks back to Marya. “Does he ever fuck anyone with his clothes off?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Liza,” Vasily chuckles.

“I would, Vasya. I really, _really_ would.”


End file.
